


With a Gun to His Head

by Thefaultinobsessiveshipping



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefaultinobsessiveshipping/pseuds/Thefaultinobsessiveshipping





	With a Gun to His Head

"It seems I've yet to burn the heart out of you." Moriarty said, pressing his gun to John's head. "Right now I could make you do anything I wanted, couldn’t I?. There's nothing you wouldn't do to keep a bullet from your dear Watson's head. This could be a fun game. Now, where to start? I could make you strip—it leaves most feeling vulnerable--but you for you, Sherlock Holmes, who will go around Buckingham Palace in merely a sheet, I highly doubt your reaction would be the same, which would take out all the fun. Physical vulnerability is a no, then. Mental vulnerability would make you very boring, so that must be ruled out, yes? I guess that leaves us with emotional vulnerability. There are so many things I could make you do, but you already know what I have in mind, I'm sure. It's so evident that Dr. Watson is your weakness, but the ignorant man is so blind. Surely you want to enlighten him?"  
"John knows he's my best friend." Sherlock replied, furrowing his brows, feigning confusion.  
"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Sherlock." Moriarty pulled slightly on the trigger as a warning. “There could be disastrous consequences.”  
“Sherlock, what’s he talking about?” John wasn’t stupid; he had his suspicions. Nevertheless, he’d never have risked saying as much, nor would himself to get his hopes up.  
“Answer him, Sherlock, and do make it a lovely speech. I get a bit trigger happy when I’m bored.” Sherlock looked very hesitant, very panicked but hesitated for only a moment.  
“John Watson, I’ve been in love with you from the moment we met. I didn’t realize it at the time—well, I did in a sense. More accurately, I didn’t understand what it was I was feeling. I knew I was attracted to you on some level, but it wasn’t until a great deal later that I realized exactly how so.” Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, obviously nervous about what he was planning on saying.  
“For some time, I didn’t see anything as worth living for, and you were what changed that. These past years have been the best of my life, and had I not met you, I’m sure I wouldn’t be here today. John, you are the best thing to ever happen to me and the best friend anyone could ask for. I know things don’t look good for either of us right now, but I hope you know that I’m happier to die right now as your friend than to have died never knowing you. Thank you for giving me that—for everything. I hope you know that I am forever grateful for your friendship.”  
John’s eyes were filled to the brim with tears about to spill over. “All these years you let me think I had no chance with you. You had to be all ‘I’m married to my work,’ and now you tell me—now that I have a gun to my head you decide to tell me. Damn it, Sherlock. I’ve always been in love with you, you idiot.” The detective nervously shifted his gaze to John.  
“Oh, how very touching. Well done, Sherlock, but it seems nevertheless this game has lost my interest. Say goodbye to your dear Watson.” Before Sherlock had any chance to react, the bullet had already gone through John’s skull. It was all such a blur in the moments following. Moriarty had fled while Sherlock called an ambulance. Sherlock wished he hadn’t deleted medical knowledge upon meeting John. He always assumed his doctor would know what to do, but never had he given thought to him as the one injured.  
“It’s too late, Sherlock.” John whispered.  
“No. It’s not too late. It can’t be too late. Don’t talk like that.” Sherlock sobbed. John reached up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek.  
“I’ve always wanted to do that.” John smiled sadly and guided Sherlock’s lips to his own. He’d always thought their first kiss, if it ever were to happen, would be fiery, passionate, as if the world was ending, but now the only world ending was theirs. Their kiss was slow and gentle, the passion lost in their exhaustion but their desperation never fading. Fingers threaded lazily through hair, but John’s heart slowed and then stopped altogether.  
Sherlock lied there covered in blood, still holding onto John when the ambulance arrived. They explained to him, nothing could be done, but he was in denial of the death altogether. Through his tears he yelled at them to fix him, but their response was still the same. Lestrade arrived moments later, wrapping a blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders. Though he would normally protest, he simply asked for John’s jumper to cry into. It wasn’t something they usually would allow, but it seems exceptions are always made for Sherlock Holmes.  
Lestrade took him home, leaving all paperwork till morning. After a cup of tea, Sherlock went to bed, feeling at that point more numb than he could have ever imagined.  
...

It's been 3 weeks since. He thought it would have sunk in by now, but it's not. He can't eat, can't sleep; the days have blended together. All of that was true before, though.  
John used to remind him to do those things. He'd make tea that had rosemary, lavender, chamomile, or something of the sort to make him sleepy and would leave out his favorite sweets to tempt him into eating. It made John happy thinking he could take care of him. Sherlock pretended it annoyed him, but it didn't. He still finds himself sulking, waiting for John to bring him tea and sweets when he’s tired, but then remembers he’s gone.  
He sits in his chair a lot. It used to smell just like John, but it fades as he does. He doesn’t know how to go on without him. His heart is numb to all but pain, and John is all he can think of. No cases can distract him; he has neither the desire nor the energy for them. He doesn’t even feel alive anymore, and really, he wasn’t. Though there was one funeral—one body in the morgue—there’s no Sherlock without his Watson.


End file.
